Into Africa

I would be lying if I said I was genuinely excited in the days leading up to my departure for Cameroon. Don’t get me wrong—in theory I was ecstatic, but the surreal quality of my acute reality left me in a state of part-terrified, part-numb disbelief. See, I have dreamt of visiting Africa for as long as I can remember. From Egypt to Kenya to Madagascar to Senegal, there are few countries on this vast continent that don’t fascinate and tempt me. I guess there is just something about a dream soon to be realized that creates a surcharge of emotion that just kind of blows the whole circuit.

I carried this emotional blank through the morning of my departure as I got up, got ready and got re-packed. It persisted as I checked in, dropped off my bags and made my way through security and to my gate. It even stuck around through most of the flight, as I chatted with my seatmate, watched movies and ate the airline’s version of French food. Then we began our descent into Douala.

Out the window I could see dense jungle and plantations stretching for kilometers, interspersed by occasional red dirt roads. Then concrete block homes and clapboard shanties without windows, little specks—children—playing soccer, the odd vehicle dodging giant puddles on the dirt roads. Very suddenly it hit me. Holy $#!* I’m in AFRICA! I could feel my heart start to beat faster in my chest, and a smile spread across my face. I’m IN Africa!

Leaving the plane, I was reminded of disembarking in Panama some years ago. The humidity hits you and clings to you, so you are instantly sweating. I followed the crowd through the airport, at once amused and totally reassured (!) by the very professional large posters warning about Ebola, its symptoms and how to prevent contracting it. Prior to border control, we all had to pass through “Sanitation control”, which basically consisted of showing our Yellow Fever cards. Well, guess who thought she wouldn’t need to bring hers along? I mean, logically, it is a requirement for obtaining a visa, so if you have a valid visa… but alas, logic does not suffice. 10 Euros, however, seems to do the trick.

When I went to collect my things, I had an airport worker approach me and help me gather my bags, admittedly no small feat in the massive crowd around the baggage claim. I kind of expected him to ask for money but this bugger has the gall to ask me for 20 freaking Euros! I wanted to smack the smug smile right off his face when he said, “You’re my sister”. No, I told him, “I’m a student. For five minutes of help, you want me to give you what it would take me more than two hours to earn? My brother wouldn’t take advantage of me like that.” Nevertheless, I sensed that it would not go incredibly well for me if I didn’t give him something, so he got me for 10 Euros anyways.

My host was not allowed to meet me at arrivals for security reasons, so I trekked down to the main parking lot, through a massive crowd of people waiting for their own arrivals. It was an incredibly self-conscious, vexing moment to feel dozens of pairs of eyes following me as I tried to get to one side to spot my host. I know it is largely curiosity, but being the minority is totally foreign to me.  I could actually feel the tension leave my body as I saw my host emerge from the crowd. 

The ride to my temporary home in Limbe was overwhelming. It took nearly three hours to cover the 70 KMs separating the house from the airport, and on the road it was pure chaos. People stacked 3 and 4 deep on dusty little motorcycles—not a helmet in sight, of course—wove in and out of traffic. The cars, all of which appear to have participated in a round or two of destruction derby were hardly any better, jutting left and right with barely a honk as warning, plowing headlong into oncoming traffic to pass slower vehicles. Neither the unlined, pockmarked roads nor the pedestrians helped matters any, the latter sometimes stepping out with no more than a wave, sometimes with small children in tow.

The sides of the road throbbed with life. Some vendors strolled with huge loads on their heads while others sold their goods from aged wooden stalls—street meat, fruit, electronics, all available within feet of the main road. Every couple hundred yards, colorful flashing lights and blaring music announced another local watering hole. At one point, my host stopped to buy bread, leaving me and my stuff in the car with the windows wide open and a casual warning to beware pickpockets and thieves. Really takes the edge off, ya know?

A little further up the road we came to a police checkstop, where the cop, accompanied by two military folk, hassled my host about the sticker for the registration on his car and, seeing my stuff in the back, got on his case about working as an unregistered taxi. Ultimately, he waved us through, though my host told me as we pulled away that he was definitely looking for us to throw a bone or two his way. Finally beyond the extended reaches of the city, the roadside activity gave way to vast stretches of government-owned plantations—banana and rubber and palm oil.

It was nearly 10 pm by the time we arrived at the house, a relatively large yet simple home (by Canadian standards) with concrete walls, tile floors and pretty reliable electricity. Already, this is pretty ballin’ by Cameroonian standards. My host led me through to my room, a good size space with a double bed, an en suite and my very own princess canopy (or, more accurately, a mosquito bed net). Though plumbed for a toilet and sink, I’m told there is only running water about once a month, so I need to keep a bucket of water beside the toilet, to “flush”.

I happily began to settle in, lining up my toiletries on the shelf above the sink, unloading my bags… when all of a sudden I saw a dark form scamper in, quick as a flash, climb up the wall and around behind suitcases stacked on top of the wooden rack in the corner. Trying not to react like a total n00b at the sight of a harmless (I hope) mouse, I took a moment to let my heart slow back down, then promptly went and re-zipped all my bags, making sure they were impenetrable to wandering vermin. A few minutes later, my host’s wife gave me a little tour, starting in the kitchen, where a giant cockroach was crawling on a bottle of oil. She casually knocked it to floor and stomped on it, while I considered noping the crap right out of Africa. I mean, what was I thinking? Do I really have what it takes to do this?